


brittle bones

by republica



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, F/M, Minor Character Death, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-23 05:18:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/republica/pseuds/republica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is drowning, buried in the memories of her past and of tragedy. Life is a monotony broken only by the hour she spends behind the school with the blonde boy and a cigarette. (Highschool age AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few quick warnings for this and future chapters: brief mention of suicide, anxiety, and lots of smoking. Also general sadness/depressed thoughts.

  It’s stiflingly warm in the crowded hallway, your skin feels tacky and you want to blame it on the heat but really it's your nerves. You abhor being nervous, try to convince yourself you aren’t - and to the people who do not know you, you are the picture of calm, aloof... and other words, you can hear them whispering. Anyone else you would accuse of paranoia, but you know, it’s impossible it’s anything else - they’re whispering about you. There is a giggle that makes you hold your head higher and continue, because you have no interest in winning the respect or making the acquaintance of any of these people.

  You’re well aware of the figure you cut against this backdrop - your pale skin and black lips may as well be neon signs, the dark velvet dress an invitation to stare.

  Class is dull and dry and you watch the washed out and limp teacher try in vain to win some participation from your peers. You feel eyes on your back but you stare straight ahead; when the teacher calls on you - ‘the new girl’ - you answer him with no enthusiasm. His eyebrows raise when you produce the correct answer, astonished anyone has paid him a modicum of attention.

  A harsh voice from behind you mimics your answer in shrill tones, under the breath. Giggles. You refocus on the nothingness of the still air, the light tapping of your fingertips on the wooden desk.

  The lunch room is a scene from your nightmares, crowds of people, loud noises and bright lights making you feel overexposed like a bad photograph. Your colors feel invisible in the din, your brain buzzes with the sensory overload. You’ve never seen so many people your age in one place, you’ve never wanted to.

  Eating can wait, you decide, turning instead to the door leading out behind the school. The air is humid and heavy on your skin, typical Southern mugginess, and you wish for the crispness of New England, for your forest dark and deep and silent, but instead you get a dying weed and a patch of dirt, a yard from the industrial dumpsters, and looking out over the brown grass of the playing fields.

  You lower yourself to the ground, breathe in and out, once, twice, to calm your nerves and your mind. From within your bag you find your cigarettes, your one companion since the accident and the best way to calm your shaky hands.

  One draw and you feel your shoulders unhunch; you close your eyes against the oppressive skyline and think instead of pine forest and snow.

  Methodically you make your way through two cigarettes, spacing out into your own world, your own head, thinking of the psychology article you read the previous evening, of how little you want to endure the questions your foster parents will ask about your first day at school. They’d been claustrophobically watchful of you this morning, smiles too bright and teeth too white. You’d heard them, the night before, whispering - ‘first time in school’ ‘worried how she’ll cope’ ‘so quiet’.

  You think, briefly, of your mother, of her slurring tones as she guided you through your schoolwork, but the memory has too many sharp edges and you push it away to instead catalogue your new situation.

  A rattle of gravel shakes you out of your focus, and you snap your eyes up to see a boy looking down at you. He’s standing into the sun, you can make out is a giant pair of sunglasses but no features, dark jeans and a red shirt. You look at him for a long second, blink, then take another drag of your cigarette.

  He doesn’t speak, and after another moment walks around you to lean against the wall, putting enough distance between you to imply solitude. You watch from the corner of your eye as he pulls out his own pack, lights up, inhales and breathes a cloud of smoke into the air through his nose. His face is impassive, bones sharp. You could cut yourself on his harsh corners.

  You say nothing.

* * *

 

  It’s an uncomfortable ride home in the giant SUV your foster mother - ‘Call me Beth, hon’ drives. She spills nervous chatter into the tense silence, vowels twanging and giggles nervous. You consider, for a moment, indulging her - you can be friendly, if you choose. But it’s an effort you can’t justify, so instead you lean your forehead against the cool glass and shut your eyes, her voice and the whooshing of the air conditioning combining.

  Your room in their house is big, but nothing compared to the sprawling rooms and wide halls of your home. ‘Beth’ has decorated it in cheerful colors and bright prints, the bedspread aqua and teal stripes. The colors hurt your eyes, and you sit looking at yourself in front of your mirror for a long moment. You carefully remove your headband. You wonder idly if grief shows on your face; perhaps your skin has been tinted by it. When you walk you wonder if a microscopic trail of weariness follows you, infecting everywhere you go, stalking your steps.

  With a heavy hand you drag your brush through the short blond locks, which to your eye look limp and lustreless. Everything about your reflection seems hazy and dim, as if you’ve been blurred at the edges, or folded too many times until you’re just withered inside your skin.

  You try and recall your reflection from before, your alertness and your wit so close to the surface.

  You stumble upon a memory of your mother brushing your hair, martini in one hand and the best hairbrush money could buy in the other, as you verbally sparred about one thing or another. The details are lost, but in your mind you see the two of your reflections in the mirror, and your mother is smiling and your mouth is twisted in a smirk.

  The brush is thrown down as you push away from the vanity, instead moving over to your bed.

  ‘Rose, honey!’ Beth calls to you, ‘Dinner’s ready if you’re hungry!’

  You decline, instead curling up on your bed, listlessly watching the ceiling fan, the blades forming stretching shadows that grow longer as you lie.

  Fatigue clouds your thoughts, and you perch on the edge of sleep, half conscious.

  The last thing in your mind before you succumb is the boy, all angles and definition and restless energy.


	2. Chapter 2

  Your first week feels like an eternity, the days blurring and your nights spent lying awake in a daze, because nightmares haunt your thoughts and prey on your sleep. The bags under your eyes are purple and dark and Beth looks at you with concern, you can see her and her husband ‘Nice to meet you, I’m Steve’ exchanging glances as you politely sit through breakfast.

  You haven’t worked up the courage to sit in the lunchroom yet. You buy an apple and a water bottle before going to your spot behind the school. Every day in this place seems the same; Texas has no colors to distinguish the details. You wish for dark greens and crisp whites and instead you get brown, beige, a lifeless blue sky with washed out clouds that hang in the air with no purpose. The dust under your feet seems to creep into you, making you feel dry and desiccated like a husk of your self.

  Every day that first week you are joined by the boy. The second day he’d met your eyes as he came round the corner half way through the lunch hour, and you’d raised one eyebrow slightly before turning your gaze back to the rusty batting cage.

  You wonder if this has been his spot for long, if you’re in his space and if you should, perhaps, speak. You don’t want to ruin the calm; he’s never looked annoyed to see you, although that means very little for you’ve seen no emotions flash across his face at all. He’s impassive, but you wonder if its from apathy or tranquility.

  Thursday you’re called into the office during the lunch period, to sit in front of the guidance counselor as she asks with practiced interest ‘how you’re fitting in’ and gives you a short talk on how ‘we want all our students to feel welcome, especially after experiencing such a terrible and heartbreaking tragedy’, which makes your nostrils flare imperceptibly and you nod curtly. ‘We’re all here for you, Ms Lalonde.’

  You skip the apple and the water that day, spending the hour hunched over a toilet as your empty stomach heaves and  you go still as you hear the door open.

  ‘Did you see her face when they called her name? She’s probably getting kicked out for being a freak!’

  ‘Sorry, no goths allowed in our school!’

  Your heart pulses with anger as you recognize the two girls who find you particularly offensive. They’re giggling and laughing.

  ‘I heard she arrested for killing her mother, but they sent her here instead of jail because there was no proof...’

  ‘No, she tried to kill herself, when they found her she was like, almost dead, and that’s why she’s so pale and weird.’

  ‘Whatever, why do they even let crazy people come here? Shouldn’t she be like, locked up or something?’

  Your ears are ringing and you crash out of the stall past them, into the hall, which is teeming with students who pay you no attention. You lean into your locker and shake, before taking heavy steadying breaths and forcing your back straight and your face composed.

  As you close the locker, you catch a flash of red out of the corner of your eye. Turning, you see a familiar pair of sunglasses from down the hall. Your eyes lock with the boy for a brief second, and his mouth parts. The bell rings and you blink twice, gather your bag and continue down the opposite way to your class.

  And he’s waiting for you the next day, only probably not, that’s just your brain complicating everything as usual. But he is there when you turn the corner, clutching the cold water tight. Your way into the cafeteria had been blocked by the two girls from the bathroom, who ignore you as they cut in the line. You know that the old you would have said something, cut them down, made them realise that you are not, in fact, no one. But you can’t bring yourself to care, now, and you just sigh as they smack into your arm one time too many for it to be an accident.

  He’s sitting; usually he lounges casually against the wall, full of a strange and effortless elegance that you note. Today he isn’t within his carefully kept distance, the one that keeps you strangers. He sits only a foot or so from your usual spot.

  You pause for an infinite moment as you take in this change to your routine, if five days can be called such. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge you, but he’s there half an hour early and he’s done it for a reason.

  You refuse to think about it as you settle down into your usual spot, dropping your pink backpack against the wall and drawing out your pack of smokes, sticking one between your lips. There’s no lighter in there; and you can see it, sitting on your desk at the house where you'd left it that morning.

  You curse softly, and he turns slightly in your direction. A beat and he’s drawn out his own lighter, which is red and plain. You watch, motionless, as he brings it to the end of your cigarette, flicks it, cupping one hand around the side to light.

  You take a draw and reach up to grasp it between your fingers, exhaling the smoke slowly.

  Rolling your head slightly to the side you nod, a silent thanks.

  He says nothing.

 

Later that evening you realise your curse is the first word either of you has spoken in the other’s presence.

 

  The weekend is dull; you spend it alone and secluded. Beth knocks on your door, ‘want to go shopping, maybe for some girl time?’ but you don’t answer and you hear a sigh; her footsteps move away after a long moment.

  You’ve grown intimately acquainted with the cracks in your ceiling, with the tiny divots and bumps, with the splotchy water stain that spreads across the white plaster. You’ve watched dust motes float in the sunlight that comes in through your window. Sunday evening you lie awake and listen to loud rumbling thunder that claps and booms, the rain pounding your windows in a staccato pattern.

  The world is steamy and warm the next day, and you think of how different it smelled back home after a storm.

  Perhaps that difference is the one that puts you over the edge. You feel angry, irate, furious at the world for being different from what you remember. It’s better than feeling nothing, you think.

  Class is grating, more so than usual. In psychology, you’re put in a group with the girl from the restroom, who gives you a disdainful look and a sneer. You narrow your eyes slightly at her.

  The topic for the day is criminal insanity, which strikes you as impossibly amusing. You want to laugh when the teacher loads up a bland and boring slideshow. The girl is eying you with a glint in her eye, and what does she expect when she raises her hand to ask

  ‘Don’t you think that it’s better to keep those kinds of people,’ and she glances at you, ‘away from you know, normal kids like us? They could be dangerous!’

  You ignore the snickers from the room. The teacher looks befuddled. He answers her shortly.

  ‘Why don’t you just ask her, then?’ The guy sitting next to her is pointing at you. ‘I’m sure the goth girl knows all about it!’

  The wrath boiling in your heart since that morning explodes in a fiery ball, and you stand up, throwing your chair back so it tumbles to the ground. The girl looks terrified, and her accomplice has wide eyes and it’s silent as the grave in the room.

‘I’m not sure who made the terrible error of deluding you into thinking you are a humorous person, but I’d quite like to find them and defenestrate them. I’m sure you find mocking anyone who differs from your identical mold of fatuity and conceit an invigorating pastime, but truly it only serves to highlight what a contemptible specimen of human being you are.’

You’re not shouting; you’re barely speaking in louder than a whisper, but your voice is quaking with anger.

 ‘I suspect it is because you have no idea what it’s like to experience any hardship more onerous than deciding in what way you’re going to inflict your insipid personality on the unsuspecting world. Feel free to continue your vacuous existence, but remain as far from my sight as you possible unless you wish to find out what will happen.’

  You refuse to look at the people who are gaping at you; you rush out of the room instead, thankful this is your last class before lunch as you push open the door to the back fields and toss yourself onto the ground, and your head hits the wall with a crack that leaves you seeing stars for a moment. The pain is a welcome distraction.

  For a moment there, you felt like yourself - like the old you, from before this abrupt change, from before that night with the frost on the windshield and the cold and the wild crazy lights that shatter your life into a million pieces. She was the kind of girl who would never let the useless insignificant opinions of others affect her; the girl whose vocabulary was impressive and whose tolerance for idiots was nonexistent. But now you just feel shaky and empty, as all the anger you felt has drained from you, replaced with a familiar weariness. A solitary tear leaks from your eye and you brush at it angrily, biting the inside of your cheek till it bleeds.

  You left your bag in the classroom you realise as a craving for nicotine swamps you. Your hand is jittery and you need to calm down, to regain your composure.

  You close your eyes, laying your head on your arms against your knees.

  A thud in the dirt to your side causes you to look up. Your bag’s been set in the dirt next to your feet. You glance up at a proffered bottle of water and apple.

  It’s the boy, and he’s offering you your lunch and your bag. How did he know about the bag? You hadn’t even heard the bell ring to signal the end of the class.

‘Next time you wanna tear those asswipes a new one, better use words they can actually understand’ he says, and his voice is twangy in a totally different way from what you’re used to; his sounds are unique and less grating.

You find the corner of your mouth curling into a half smile. 


	3. Chapter 3

His name is Dave, and it turns out he is in your psychology class. In an impartial tone he tells you how the girl had shrieked that it was ‘proof’ you were insane, and the teacher had been even more bewildered than normal - ‘takes some skill to make Scratch look dumber than usual, nice going’, before attempting to continue the lesson over the chattering of the students.

You listen and drink the water, pressing the cold surface to the back of your neck.

Dave tells you they’re probably gonna want you in the office, ‘gotta keep the sheep in line’ and you sigh.

‘I’m sure I’ll be required to attend more sessions with the foolish woman that works in the guidance office,’ you say, and he laughs.

‘What, you’re not comforted by ‘we’re all here for you’?’ he asks, mimicking the woman’s nasal tone. ‘Blasphemy, Lalonde.’

  You wonder how he knows about that particular platitude. It doesn’t surprise you that Dave has his own secrets; you can see them in the hollows of his face, even covered by the glasses.

  You shake your head and reach in your bag for the cigarettes. You offer him one, as he hasn’t taken out his own pack yet.

  He takes out two, lights them and hands one back to you. Your hand brushes his, and your heart stutters. You take a long drag, inhale too much, cough. “Fuck.”

Neither of you say anything, but the silence is comfortable. Dave’s right next to you, both with your backs to the wall. He’s closed that final distance gap, leaving just enough space so your bodies aren’t touching. For a fleeting second you wish they were, that you could press into him, but you push it away again in a cloud of smoke.

‘So, what’s with the lipstick?’ He asks after a few more minutes, and you turn and raise

an eyebrow.

‘What’s with the sunglasses?’ you shoot back. ‘I don’t recall seeing much sun inside the school building, but perhaps I’m just unobservant.’

‘Doesn’t look like you see much sun ever, Dracula.’    

It’s nice to have someone to snark at. You’ve missed it.

 

* * *

 

You stare across the desk at the guidance counselor, at her flabby chin, her mole with a single hair on it.

‘We’re all here for you,’ she tells you and you want to smile because you remember it in Dave’s voice.

‘I know it’s hard to adjust to junior year after being homeschooled,’ she tells you and you wonder how she could possibly know that if she’s never done it.

‘I know you’ll fit in just fine, if you try, dear,’ and you think that for someone who is supposed to be guiding you she does talk a lot about herself.

 

* * *

 

You find out that Dave is a sophomore, taking advanced classes. He’s something of a loner too, though from what you can tell it’s more of a choice, as you see him talking with others in the halls. He always gives you a friendly ‘sup’ as you go by. You know he has no trouble conversing easily with people; leading them down the strange thought patterns he concocts in his brain and rattles off to you in bursts. Sometimes he’s quiet, though, with a shadow across his face that you recognize from your own reflection. He likes mixing music, one day pulling his iPod out of his pocket and offering you an earbud, and the two of you smoke as you listen to the whirling beats and skittering rhythms.

‘Man, you should’ve seen Karkat’s face when he found out what you said to those jackasses,’ Dave says, a few days after it happens. ‘He’s probably going to propose any day now.’

‘Karkat is the short angry one, is he not?’

‘Yup.’

‘Lucky me.’

‘He’s a funny dude. Never met anyone with so much rage in one body.’

You don’t say anything for a minute.

‘Why do your friends never join you to smoke?’ You ask, keeping your tone casual but you’re tentative about asking this. You don’t want to pry too much into whatever this thing you two have is.

‘Bored of me already, Lalonde?’ He puffs out a breath. ‘Nah. Told those losers not to bug me out here. Clears my head, you know?’

‘Ah. I … apologize, then, for my intrusion into your retreat.’

‘Not what I meant. You ain’t intruding on anything.’

For some reason that makes your heart flutter, too. Actually, it happens much more than you’d like to admit. You catch yourself looking at Dave a lot, over the next month. At the sharp features that caught your eye from the first day. You soak up the details of him; the wispy blonde hairs that you imagine are soft. His lips, chapped and dry. His cheeks with the faintest hint of freckles. You wonder what color his eyes are. He’s never taken off the sunglasses, but you don’t mind.

And sometimes, you think he looks at you, too. You feel eyes on the back of your head, or a prickly feeling as you’re both sitting, trading a cigarette back and forth. But with the glasses, you are never certain.

You chide yourself for sentimentality, for behaving like a fool.

* * *

You stare at Beth across the dinner table. She’s set a spring bouquet on the table, with bright purple iris ‘just like your eyes, Rose’ and wispy little white flowers.

You aren’t planning to say anything; in fact you find the bouquet fairly ugly.

But ‘My mother grew irises’ is what comes out and you’re surprised at it. It’s not entirely true; irises grew on your property, they were not cultivated.

Beth and Steve exchange a quick glance. ‘Your mom, she liked to garden?’

That makes you want to laugh. But you don’t want to explain to them anything about your home, your memories, anything. You turn back to your salad, contemplating the thought that perhaps, after a month, you owe these people something. They are patient with you. You’re well aware how difficult you can be, sometimes.

‘I... I have made an acquaintance, at school. Would it be acceptable for him to come over?’

It’s an awkward and blatant subject change but Beth’s smile is huge. You think of splintering glass hitting your face and the scream that haunts your dreams, but you push it away; you focus instead on the light hitting the crystal chandelier and bouncing off, splintering in a different way.

 

* * *

 

Dave charms Beth, drawls with her about the Texans, the Astros, things you’ve never had an interest in, but you don’t mind listening to them chatter as you sit next to him on the sofa, feeling light and airy like a cloud. It’s odd, because you’re so used to heaviness, a weight on your shoulders and on your back.

He laughs at the decorations in your room, ‘where are the skulls and pentagrams, did you even try, Lalonde?’ and when he finds your violin case, hidden under the desk, the cover scratched and faded in spots, you heart stutters.

With a raised eyebrow he turns to you, but you’re not looking at him, you’re looking out the window caught in a memory of arcing melodies and your hands clasping a warm wooden bow.

                        That night he sends you a sound file, and it has the usual frenetic beats and tempo, but woven through is the mournful tones of a violin, resonating and low and you sit, listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not as sure about this chapter  
> finding the proper tone is challenging me


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay  
> warnings for tiny hints of unrequited john/rose, and tiny karkat/john  
> also panic attacks (i dont have any experience with them so i apologise if i am unrealistic or offensive) 
> 
> on a happier note, batkind made some lovely art for this! it's [here](http://neonjennesisevangelion.tumblr.com/post/40139112247/she-is-drowning-buried-in-the-memories-of-her)

     It rains the whole first week of April, dense sheets of water that soak the earth, turning it to mud.

            You stare out the cafeteria window, your back to the rest of the students. The torrent throws droplets against the glass, as if angry for some unknown offense. It matches your black mood.

            April is the cruelest month, you can’t help but think, and against your best efforts a pang of dismay creeps into your heart. It will be four months to the day on Friday, and you wonder when you’ll stop keeping monthly memorial. Maybe someday you can note the passage of years with some kind of distance, with something that isn’t a tight heart and a deep-seated fury with the world.

            You have – had – always prided yourself on being fair, impartial and observant, willing to consider both sides of any story. Life fit your formula and you were content with that. Strange and odd things drew you for the exact reason that they were off-kilter, not in the box. As long as there was some sort of structure, it was fine if things were unstructured, intriguing even.

            But now, you think, you are adrift. How can you base your judgment on fairness, when you’ve become intimately acquainted with the idea that life is not fair? It may be impartial, but you are undecided whether that is a comfort.

            You are wallowing; you know it and you dislike it. Wallowing strikes you as a waste of time and emotional energy, something that you previously viewed with a distant disdain. That view hasn’t changed, but your proclivity for the activity has increased, to your consternation.

            Any attempts to indulge in a smoke are dashed by the rain. Five seconds in it and you’re soaked. You crave a cigarette intensely, though your hands have yet to start shaking. This is the first time in the whole month and half you’ve been here that you’ve had to sit in the cafeteria.  It’s rained before, but not during the lunch hour or not hard enough to deter your habit.

 

            ‘Sup, Lalonde? Caught your impression of a drowned cat this morning. Impressive, but a truly dedicated actress would’ve stayed out in the rain another 15, 30 seconds, for real authenticity.’

            Your bitter musing is interrupted as Dave sits next to you, swinging one leg over the bench.

            ‘Have you installed windscreen wipers on your sunglasses? Or do you walk around blind?’ Your tone is not right for the light-hearted comment, it’s too harsh and you can tell he notices.

            ‘Bee in your bonnet? Wasp in your perm? Praying mantis in your bouffant?’

            You sigh. ‘I’m perfectly fine, Dave, except perhaps for slight discomfort at imagining insects in my hair.’

            ‘Bullshit.’

            How has this boy gotten able to see through you in such a short time?

            ‘Alright, then, I do not want to talk about it. Is that acceptable to you?’

…‘Course.’

            You’re both silent. You feel a stab of guilt; that last reply was more of a snap. Dave seems unruffled, but he is the master of nonchalance.

            You hear someone calling his name over the din of the lunchroom. He glances up, and from the corner of your eye you see a tall dark haired boy with glasses waving from across the room.

            ‘If my no doubt scintillating company is distracting you from something pressing, feel no obligation to indulge my gloominess,’ you say as he gestures back at whomever the boy is.

            ‘Nah, it’s just Egbert. He wants me to invite you to his dumb party this weekend.’

            You know of John Egbert. He is unnaturally cheerful and has goofy teeth. He plays football but has no interest in the football crowd. You suspect Karkat has a crush on him, but have too little data to really make a firm evaluation. You have never really spoken to him, but he makes sure to greet you when Dave does.

            ‘An invitation to a football jock’s party. How I’ve risen in the world.’

            ‘Girl to girl, he’s got a thing for you.’

            ‘You are an incorrigible gossip.’ You want to laugh at the thought of some naive boy thinking he likes you.

            ‘You love it. I can see the wheels turning in your head. I tried to warn him about the teeth and the claws, but he won’t listen.’

            You smirk.

            ‘See, I wish I could take a picture of that smile and show it to him. Caution: beware of goth.’

            ‘Karkat can’t be pleased about this,’ you say.

            Dave gives you a look, one eyebrow raised. ‘Karkat, huh?’ He glances back over at the table. ‘You are fuckin’ devious.’

            ‘It’s part of my charm.’

            Dave’s other eyebrow rises to meet the first, but the corner of his mouth twitches. There’s another shout from the table. Dave gives them the finger.

            ‘Goddamn impatient losers. So, what do you say to mingling with the common folk?’

            ‘When is this aforementioned soiree?’

            ‘What, gotta check your calendar? _‘Shit, sorry, can’t make it I got a double period of moping and angst scheduled. Try next month.’_ It’s Friday night, and I know for a fact you got a fat load of nothin’ planned.’

            You feel a swoosh as your stomach turns. Friday.

            ‘I – I can’t, actually. I apologise.’

            ‘What? Come on, Lalonde. Exposure therapy, maybe someday we can get you to play well with others. Right up your bullshit psychology alley. Antisocial Avenue. Crackpot Court.’

            He stops, looks at you, shuts up. You’re staring at the table, one hand gripping your water bottle tightly and it crinkles from the pressure.

            Your head is woozy again.  You shut your eyes and breathe through your nose, shallow and fast. A rational part of your brain says that the date is irrelevant, that four months is a long time, that you should be able to handle this with more tact and less emotional nonsense. The part of your brain in control tells that part to fuck off and continues its inappropriate reaction to the thought. Your heart is going a mile a minute.

            Dave is leaning forward, his hand hovering over yours and his face showing traces of worry.

            ‘Breathe, Lalonde, breath. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. It was a joke, you can be as antisocial as you want. Calm down, deep breaths and it’ll be over.’ He is comforting you in a low undertone, and when you lock your eyes with his he puts his hand on yours and rubs a slow circle into your palm.

            You feel an overwhelming urge to abscond and flee from the scene. That level of vulnerability leaves you feeling overexposed and tired. Your eye is watering and you rub at it, breaking eye contact and looking at anyone but him.

            ‘Hey.’ Your eyes snap back to his, through the shades. ‘It’s cool. I used to get panic attacks a lot. Don’t freak out on me, okay?’

            You… nod. You’re not surprised; his pacifying words sound practiced.

            ‘I apologise,’ you say. ‘That was… unexpected.’

            ‘It’s cool. Should’ve known the idea of being in a room with two dozen strangers is basically your idea of hell on Earth. What was it you said? ‘Hell is other people’ and all that.’

            ‘Sartre aside, I confess that is not what caused my… discomfort.’

            Your tone is hesitant. Dave seems to pick up on this. He’s still holding your hand. You don’t want him to let go. He says nothing, but inclines his head as a partial inquiry.

            ‘I…’ you pause. ‘I will come on Friday. I’ll… I’ve… Perhaps then we can talk. Discuss…’ you trail off, uncomfortable and unable to say what you want to tell him. You want to trust Dave. Perhaps if you are not alone, it will be easier. Dave deserves the truth, you think.

            He nods, grasping your hand and he is warm and steady, an anchor keeping you from disappearing.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like the tone shift is much more noticeable here  
> but it kinds fits with the way rose's outlook is shifting, too, so i hope it's not too egregious


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the question is why cant i write anything with a consistent tone

You sense a shift, a new and incalculable dimension to your relationship. Something imperceptible has changed. It manifests itself in small touches, glances, a certain way you hold yourself in relation to him. You catch him looking at you more openly, and to your horror it makes you blush.

Neither of you says anything. If you inch closer to him, so your shoulders touch, if you let him light your cigarette and purposefully brush your fingers against his, if you find yourself idly considering the curve of his jaw and the shadows on his face, you ignore it.

But you cannot help the thoughts pushing into the forefront of your mind, which remind you constantly that time is passing, you are becoming someone unlike the person who lived in a large house in upstate New York, who had an observatory and a pet cat and a mother who was alive.

They send you hurrying to the bathroom, to lock yourself in a stall and stare at the scribbled graffiti, anything to distract you from the images and the scenes.

Cars make you anxious in ways you’d thought you’d left behind. Your white-knuckled grip on the armrest draws no comment from Beth. She is sympathetic and you find it grating, she is understanding and you wish she were less so, because then you might have a legitimate reason to dislike her, something you could hold against her. Something other than the fact that she is not your mother, but Beth knows your boundaries and respects them, and in a fit of childish immaturity you think how easily you could hate her, so much better than hating yourself and hating your mother and hating fate, or random, scientific chance, whatever sent the car over the edge and your life into these fractured pieces.

 

On that night, when Dave arrives in his beat-up old truck, you can no longer cling to a facade. You’re silent as you slide into the car next to him. He looks at you for a moment.

    ‘Listen, Lalonde, there’s no obligation for you to come to this party. It’ll probably be real lame anyway,’ he says as he pulls away from the curb. But you shake your head at his words.

For some reason you feel guilty. Guilt presses down on your shoulders, an invisible demon perching on your neck and suffocating you. You stare blindly out the windshield, flinching at every set of headlights and every turn.

It’s happened to you before, especially for the first few weeks. You’d thought after four months... four months of being fine, of driving every morning and afternoon with Beth to school, you were over it.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

You only realise you’re shaking when Dave’s hand covers yours on the armrest. He’s still driving, looking out at the road, but when you draw in a shaky breath he pats your hand softly and you can’t help but twine your fingers with his, and he doesn’t say anything and you wish he would because then you could focus on anything except -

 ‘When I was a kid, my Bro would drive around with me on his lap, cause if he let me sit on my own I’d stick my head out the window like a fuckin’ golden retriever,’ Dave says, as if he can read your mind, and you are full of gratitude.

You don’t say anything but you squeeze his fingers lightly, latching onto his words.

                    

John’s house is a pinnacle of suburban monotony. His bucktoothed grin when you and Dave arrive at his house is blinding. There’s music playing and he and Dave exchange their usual quips as you try and make your head feel less detached, you try and focus on something, and Dave shoots you a worried glance as you linger in the doorway.

 ‘Do you have a restroom?’ you enquire and retreat to splash cold water on your face.

You know many of these people, or at least you know of them, through Dave’s monologues and your observations. Usually you would find this sort of situation ripe for analysis, for examination of interpersonal relations, for your interest in human nature.

 You’re torn, uncertain how to feel or react.

Looking for guidance from your own past is useless. The first weeks after, all you remember is a cold and all encompassing numbness. That had gradually faded into a general apathy, the depth of which had scared even you. There was no sadness, just a strange and heavy indifference.

And then - then you were angry. Furious, livid, rage boiling under your skin and flaring up at a moment’s notice.

But now, you just feel confused, and vaguely tired. It’s exhausting, this vice around your heart.

 

The back porch is empty except for you, smoking one cigarette after the other, the smoke making your throat dry and your tongue heavy, and you think idly about the way Dave’s fingers look when he’s taking a drag, and you exhale through your nose.

            You should strive for objectivity, for rational examination of your own feelings. It’s the best way to come to terms. Four months is enough time to be able to look at something objectively, surely. Once you understand your thoughts, get them in order, you’ll be able to square this away.

            You breathe in again, letting your mind tentatively prod at the one part of itself you avoid, the bruised and painful part of your memory you usually glide over or force away.

                                   

            ‘You’re thinking too hard, I can tell,’ Dave says from behind you. You turn and he’s backlit against the inside of the house, his body is in shadow and you wonder what his expression is.

            All you can do is blink at him. You want to say something back, to begin your usual banter, but something inside you falters.

            ‘You alright?’ He’s saying, and you can only shake your head slightly, and take in a breath, and watch as he moves towards you, standing too far and looking down at you, and his glasses are still on even though it’s pitch black out.

            You reach up and unhook them from his face, and he makes no move to stop you, and then you can see his eyes, dark red and focused intently on you.

            Softly you run a finger over his cheek and down to trace the curve of his lip and he is so still, you barely know what you’re doing.

Words are clawing at your throat and you need them to be gone. You’d said you would tell him, and you want to. Suddenly you want to share yourself, your life, anything and everything, as long as he’s listening and looking at you like that. You’ve been silent for four months. Your hand finds his, and you take a deep breath, your chest is aching with it, and Dave looks at you, calm and steady, and you tell him.

 

 

                

    

                       

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no the real question is why are they so dumb and cute


	6. Chapter 6

“I... I had just turned sixteen,” you begin.

 

You think of your mother’s overwrought attempts at a 16th birthday party. She’d bought a thousand balloons, each emblazoned with your name, all bright pink.

 

“Of course, I was very much anticipating being able to drive. My mother’s driving habits were.... erratic, one might say.”

 

_Speed limits are for sissies_ , she used to tell you.

 

Dave’s eyes are fixed on your face. You’re looking at him, but you’re not there. You are four months ago, on that road, sitting next to your mother as she reprimands you for going too slowly.

 

“We were on our way home, it was nearly dark. Our house is - was - fairly secluded, set into a hill. The drive required going down some very winding roads.”

 

You remember the man who taught you Driver’s Ed. His mustache quivers as he tells you _these turns are killer_ , and you feel a morbid laugh rise in your chest.

 

“As usual, my mother was tipsy. One might think she’d try and set an example for her daughter, but as soon as she was out of the driver’s seat her martini was in-hand.”

 

_If I ever catch you drinking and driving you’re off to military school, Rosie._

 

“She was blabbering on about something or other, the usual emotional trainwreck that came when she drank too much.”

 

_It was only yesterday I was buying you your first edition Freud, now you’re driving, and soon you’ll be in college, and then I’ll be all alone and you’ll never visit me and I’ll grow old and grey and lonely._

 

_Mother, we both know you’ll never let yourself go grey._

 

_Aw, can’t blame me for getting emotional Rosie, you’re all I’ve got._

 

She’s all you’ve got too, really, but you let the silence wash back over you both as you take the first turn.

 

“And I... I was going around the corner, the first very sharp left turn...”

 

A horn, blaring, and headlights, blinding you, and you try to turn but you don’t know which way the car is coming from.

 

“It hit the driver’s side, sending us careening into the guardrail.”

 

The crash sent you jolting against the headrest, and then you were thrown into the deployed airbag.

 

“Mother was... screaming....”

 

You can still hear her in your head.

 

“And then... the rail snapped, and we went over the edge.”

 

The grating screech of metal on metal. Your head is fuzzy and you can’t breathe properly, and you can feel the car teeter on the edge before you start to roll forward.

 

The airbag on the passenger’s side was also out, you can see dark red stains on it, and a jolt of fear goes up your spine.

 

_Mother?_ you whisper tentatively. The car lurches again and her hand flops against the seat.

 

“We rolled down the hill. Honestly, I’m surprised the car didn’t flip over.”

 

_Mom?_

 

You unbuckle your seatbelt, try and look over at her but your leg is jammed.

 

“When the car hit us the first time, it smashed the metal, which trapped my legs.”

 

You reach for her, grab her hand.

 

_Please, please be all right_

 

“She... wasn’t moving.”

 

Dave’s grip on your hand tightens. Your eyes are hot with tears; your voice is thick.

 

_No no no no no no no_ you chant, tugging at her hand. Your heart is heavy and your eyes are wide with panic.

 

_Rose?_ Her voice is so faint you can barely hear her.

 

_It’s okay, it’s okay mother, I’ll find - I’ll do something, get someone - someone will come, it’s okay_

 

_I know it’s okay, Rosie,_ she whispers _I love you so much, baby_

 

You’re crying

 

You were and are now, and Dave wipes at your cheek and you look up into his eyes again and the emotion there scares you.

 

“I suppose whoever was in the car who hit us drove off.”

 

The next thing you remember is the light splintering through the cracks on the windshield.

 

Someone shines the light at you and all you can do is blink. You think you must’ve passed out from the whiplash.

 

Your mother’s hand is cold in yours.

 

Dave’s hand is warm in yours.

 

_Is anyone alive in there?_ The stranger with the flashlight asks.

 

_Please, please, help, my mother, she needs help, please, help us_

 

 “Emergency services took a while to get there, of course; our house is far from pretty much everything. Was.”

 

The Jaws of Life they call them, and the same bitter irony makes you want to laugh again.

 

“I woke up in the hospital and she was gone.”

 

The sterile smell is burned into your memory.

 

_Ms Lalonde, I’m afraid your mother didn’t make it._

 

You don’t react. Your head is buzzing and you wonder how much of it is the unavoidable concussion and how much is shock.

 

_Ms Lalonde?_

 

_I heard you._

 

“It frightened me,” you admit, “the lack of reaction. My own apathy towards life was quite surprising. Of course I tried to be analytical about it, but I could not find the energy for even that.”

 

Listlessness overcomes you. You spend hours staring at the ceiling as your legs heal.

 

“I couldn’t stop dreaming about it.”

 

The headlights flashing, the cracks in the windshield, your mother’s scream on endless loop in your subconscious.

 

“So I stopped sleeping.”

 

24, 36, 72 hours until you start seeing things in the corner of your room, things that look and sound like your mother but you know they aren’t her.

 

The fake smiles of the workers who come to your room, their forced cheerfulness or forced somberness. The blank whiteness that is your mind, your emotions. You can only lock away the memory, avoid anything that might remind you of it. They have to move you to a room farther away from the main road, as the sounds of the cars make you shake.

 

The silence between you and Dave stretches for a moment. You say nothing about the span of time between the hospital and the present.

 

 

“Now you’re here. With me.” He says.

 

You nod.

 

Another silence, but it’s supercharged. You feel drained, like everything inside you has gone and you’re light and airy. Almost giddy.

 

You know the real emotional tempest will come later, but for now, you are in control.

 

“Will you take me home?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i have a dilemma
> 
> this is pretty much where i want to end this arc (nice and ambiguous woo)
> 
> so i dont know if i should make a new story for the new arc, or just continue on with this one
> 
> because there's more i want to say but it's stylistically and tonally very different?


	7. Chapter 7

Dave takes you to the apartment he shares with his brother; you’re not up for going home to your foster family. You don’t say much on the drive, and he doesn’t press you. You let your head lean against the glass again and just look at him.

You’re having a hard time processing your emotions. You wish for some way to turn off your brain, turn off the part of you that continues to race through calculations and analysis of everything, of yourself, your situation, every minute shift in the atmosphere of the car, the constant feedback from your brain telling you that you should be worried, about what you just told Dave, about what he might think, whether it was a good idea. It’s too cold, too harsh; for once you wish you were not quite so capable of detached observation of yourself. You don’t want to be aware of your pounding heart and your trembling hands.

You shudder a sigh, bury your face in your hands. A tear slips down between your fingers. You’re exhausted.

Dave leads you up the stairs to the drab grey door, unlocks it, flicks on the light. It’s the first time you’ve been to his home, but you’re in no state to make anything of it.

He gently guides you to his room, then stops, suddenly awkward. He hovers in his doorway as you stand in the middle of his room.

“I’ll... be out on the couch if you need me. Bed’s all yours.”

You sit on his bed, feeling suddenly fragile. If he leaves you, you’ll be alone with the freshly awoken memories, with your mind falling down into the same dangerous spirals you told him off less than an hour ago.

“Don’t.” You say before your mind can stop you. In the back of your thoughts you realise you’re crossing a line, plowing through one carefully kept boundary the two of you have been dancing around for weeks. “Stay, please.”

Dave hesitates, clearly uncertain what you mean. He takes a step closer to you on the bed. You curl in on yourself, clutching your knees to your chest, and look up with a naked gaze.

“I would rather not be alone,” you say, catching his eyes.

Dave nods, silent. Perhaps he knows the kind of things that come to you in the dark, when all you have is your own company and it is the last thing you want.

You toe off your shoes, they fall to the floor with a light whump. You take out your headband, set it on his bedside table. His bed is unmade; you lie back and curl on your side, facing out toward the window. The only thing you feel is a slight anticipation, an ethereal calm settling over your skin and you welcome it.

Dave turns the light out, sits on the foot of the bed to kick off his own shoes. You close your eyes, listening to him move around the room.

You can feel the bed dip as he lies down, keeping a careful distance between you. You can hear his soft breathing as you both are silent. After several beats, his hand settles on your shoulder, and you cover it with your own. It is your silent encouragement to him as you lace your fingers into his. His skin is warm against yours.

He sits up on his other arm, and you can feel his eyes on you.

You release his hand, turning to your back and looking over at him. Your eyes meet in the near blackness. The movement has closed most of the distance between you; you’re close enough to feel the heat from his body on your own, even through both of your clothes.

It’s like a silent film, the both of you contemplating each other in the darkness, not speaking, breath quiet. The shadow of the nighttime on his face highlights its angles and planes, and you want to curl inside him and sleep for a century.

After a moment you decide. All the fortifications, every prickle edged facade you’ve tried so hard to maintain has fallen in the past hours, so you see no reason to keep this last, miniscule distance, when what you crave is his warmth and his comfort, and you can see in his eyes he wants nothing more than to offer it.

You gently raise yourself up and he watches you move, unblinking. You ever so gently press your lips against his and he is still against you.

It’s brief and then you’re seperate again, but any last doubt is removed. The corner of Dave’s mouth curves up in a smile. Your insides are swirling in a messy spiral.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly, “For listening to me.”

Dave’s eyelashes brush his cheek and he nods. You don’t need a reply.

Your eyelids are getting heavy, your brain growing fuzzy, exhausted from your emotional upheaval and from the weight of your own mind.

You twist again until your back is pressed in a soft line against Dave’s torso. You tuck your chin under his head, fitting perfectly, and he curves around you. One arm snakes across you to regrasp your hand, while the other curls in your hair lightly.

You can feel every breath he takes, and your chests rise and fall in rhythm.

For the first time since your mother’s death you feel safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i wrote almost 1000 words just to have them cuddle  
> anyway i think this is gonna be the end, even though there are other random scenes i really wanted to write for these two (mostly involving cuteness oops)
> 
> anyway, i want to say that i dont intend in anyway for this to be some kind of statement about how ~finding a guy~ will cure personal problems or fix rose's life; obviously in any [imagined] continuation of this she will still have to deal with her grief and her issues in a healthy way, which is not something that happens in four months. i worried slightly about writing this more 'shippy' chapter right after her telling about what happened, because i think it might come across as her using dave to blunt her emotional reaction to the events. her (potential?) romance with dave does not replace learning how to cope with loss. particularly because sometimes jumping into a relationship can be a crutch or a way to avoid dealing with feelings. instead i intended for this to be about rose finding a way to reach out, a way to stop her self imposed blame and her isolation. often dealing with tragedy on your own is daunting, and finding someone to rely on (platonically or not) is helpful and can lead to an acceptance of the need to heal.
> 
> wow that's like a paragraph but yeah tldr; dudes don't magically solve all your problems
> 
> thanks for reading this guys you all rock


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